In Living Memory
by Ol'Joe
Summary: Harry is broken. Voldemort has won, so far. Things are not what they were expected to be. Small AU tweaks greatly change the storyline, while maintaining the characters. R&R.


Author's Note. The premise for this story is simple, but involved. We read, and write, fan fiction almost exclusively because of the characters rather than the 'settings'. Rather than events, it is the responses of the character To events that draw us to them. It is all about the way they change. If different things happen to them, though, they change in different ways. Fanfiction, therefore, at least in my interpretation, is the 'art' of taking another person's work, and modifying the world, situation, and events to produce new and exciting changes in the characters. Why keep writing the same thing over and over, afterall.

This story takes characters and with slighly different situations, projects them as accurately as possible into new situations. Canon is accepted through the ending of book 5. Books 6 and 7 are largely though not entirely, ignored. The purpose of this is not to insult J.K. Rowling or her work. However, to effectively 'change' the characters, I must change things which are, after book 5, set in stone in the original text. It's awfully hard to play 'what if' after all the questions have been answered definitively. Or more accurately, I must ask different questions to get different answers. The overall timeline has also been shifted, with little effect other than to allow for a single new aspect. Also, there is experimentation with point of view and tense, which will be far less frequent in later chapters, due to the storyline. An example of the character projection method will be made in a note at the end of this first chapter. There should be few or no new notes in later chapters. Consider these an 'Introduction' to my possibly twisted logic. Enjoy.

-- Ol'Joe

* * *

**Chapter 1: Harry wakes up.**

The stands are crowded. The students, seated by house, wave color-shifting banners, word-changing buttons, and yell unintelligibly for their favored teams. House colors, draped over and off everything drape-able, adorn the stands and those in them. The scarlet and gold of Gryffindor abound among the house, and with Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs eager to see a Slytherin defeat. Over the swell of cheering, jeering, yelling, and singing, Lee Jordan recites a years-long list of the reasons for Slytherin unpopularity and lack of Quidditch skill, mental faculty, poor marks, and general deformity. Professor McGonagal, following tradition, drowns Lee out with a half-hearted chastisement.

"ther tried to drown him. Probably goes for-ouch!"

"ENOUGH ABOUT WHY MALFOY DOESN'T BATHE. GET BACK TO THE MATCH, JORDAN"

Standing on the edge of the pitch, Harry Potter is exhilarated, listening to more of Lee's pregame banter. At 15, Harry is again playing Quidditch, as seeker. He is the youngest player to become seeker in a century. This last game of the year will determine which house wins the Quidditch Cup, and help seal the House Cup. His house, Gryffindor, has won the House Cup every year since Harry came to Hogwarts, though they hadn't been so lucky with the Quidditch Cup, having won that honor only once. The previous year, the Tri-Wizard Tournament, held for the first time in living memory, caused the cancellation of the Quidditch Cup competition. Harry, entered by Lord Voldemort's servant, Barty Crouch, Jr. as part of a plan to make the Dark Lord whole again, won, or co-won, the tournament, and survived the confrontation with Voldemort that followed. His co-champion, Cedric Diggory, did not.

Harry shakes his head. No need to think about that now, almost a year later. Not today. His nerves are always bad enough before a game that he does not need that. He looks around at his teammates. Oliver Woods, captain and keeper, whose job is to fly around the three circular goal posts and keep the opposing team, Slytherin, from scoring by throwing the ball, called a Quaffle, through the hoops. Angelina and Katie are the chasers, who will compete for the Quaffle in the game and make the throws through the Slytherin goals. Fred and George, the mischievous Weasley twins, are the Beaters, who, each with a short bat will 'beat' the player-pounding Bludgers away from the Gryffindor players towards the Slytherins. Finally, Harry, the seeker, who will spend the game concentrating on finding the tiny Golden Snitch that will end the game, and probably win it for the team whose seeker catches it.

In the stands near where Harry waits with his team, he sees his friends from Gryffindor, which includes only few even among his own house, crowded together cheering, laughing, and talking. Hermione and Ron seem to be arguing, while Neville, next to them, is oblivious that his frog Trevor is hopping away a row up. Luna Lovegood, not a Gryffindor, but always around, explains something to a first year about her radish-like ear wear. Collin and Dennis Creevey, Harry obsessed brothers a year apart, are proudly flashing malfunctioning enchanted buttons which say nothing as complementary as they were intended to. Belatedly, Harry tunes into Wood's pregame speech.

"Alright guys, this is it. The last game of the season. The big one. The one we've trained for all year. Everybody remember the drills, remember the plan, and…" Oliver continues. He starts to sputter and holler, rather than finishing, as his hair, curling and stretching itself, grows down over his eyes. Behind him, the twins begin laughing and end giggling as he begins tugging at it in panic.

"Don't poke at it, it'll start poking back!" Fred says, just in time to see Woods' hair, now grown even to the middle of his nose, stretching out over the top of his head like serpents in thick bunches, and ramming into his scalp.

"Just be glad it hasn't got to your neck yet," follows George, grinning. Fumbling in his pockets, he withdraws a sweet. "Eat this, before we have to let Ron play keeper." The team, excepting Wood, laughs.

Wood takes the candy, rips off the wrapper and throws it into his mouth. Before he can continue his speech, or rebuke the twins, Madame Hooch sounds her whistle, and the team runs onto the field. Fred and George drag Wood with them, his hair calming down, but still pecking at him.

On the field, Harry gets ready to lift off on signal with his Firebolt, still one of the top model broomsticks after nearly 2 years. Looking out over the field, he sees Professor Umbridge, the headmistress, glaring evilly. She had begun his fifth year as his fifth Defense against the Dark Arts professor, despite the curse rumored to be on the job. Following a stream of ridiculous decrees from the Ministry of Magic, under Minister Fudge, Professor Umbridge had managed to get Professor Dumbledore ousted and take his seat. Before that, though, Harry had a small series of problems with her, first with detentions in which he was forced to write scars into the backs of his hands, and ending with his being disallowed from playing Quidditch for the remainder of the year.

"Huh?" Harry asks himself, speaking allowed. Angelina elbows him to shut him up as Madame Hooch, the referee, wrestles the game coin out of Wood's hair, it having been caught mid-flip. The twins, fighting not to laugh, help enough to get them all tangled for a moment.

_"__I must be sick or __something_," Harry thinks to himself. He remembers it happening, remembers the final match, with Ginny playing seeker. But here he is. "_What's wrong with me? I feel fine.__"_

Finally finishing the coin toss, Madame Hooch signals, and Harry, along with the players of both teams, takes off. Wood flies towards the hoops mumbling as the twins streak off after the bludger. Harry, forced to concentrate, flies above the others, ignoring the commentary to spot the Snitch. Harry flies around in slow, lazy circles, keeping an eye on the Slytherin seeker, Draco Malfoy, in case he spots the Snitch first.

"Slytherin in possession -- Warrington with the Quaffle -- passes Bell and Johnson -- hit hard by a Bludger, great work by Fred Weasley, maybe George -- Warrington keeps the Quaffle, oh! Warrington gets a lucky one in -- Slytherin up ten to zero -- Johnson comes back with the Quaffle, passes to Bell -- Bell lines up with the goal post-- ah, come on -- Crabbe hits Bell from behind with the Bludger – Bell goes through the goal, but Warrington gets the Quaffle -- I heard that he's part Centaur, the back part, actually -- "

"--JORDAN -- "

"-- Sorry Professor -- Gryffindor back in possession -- Johnson goes for it --blocked by Diggory --"

Harry's head snaps up. Diggory? Harry looks over at the Slytherin Goal posts, guarded by Cedric Diggory. "_What's he doing? He's Hufflepuff! He's __dead__"_

Harry flies towards the Slytherin goalposts, thinking his eyes must be too tired, his brain overworked preparing for OWLS, something. Getting closer he sees that it is Cedric, though, alive and wearing a Slytherin sneer.

"Didn't expect to see me alive again, did you Potter?" asks Cedric.

_"__Wha__?"_

Before Harry can respond, a Bludger, forcing him to roll under his broom, hits him. His reflexes run a corkscrew and right him, but now he is halfway down the field. He looks up to see Malfoy streaking towards ground. _"__Golden Snitch!__"_

Malfoy is much closer, Harry thinks, but not riding a Firebolt. He urges the Firebolt towards where the Snitch must be, near the ground. Riding nearer, with Malfoy whooping, Harry sees a golden flash zoom by his right side. "_The Snitch! __Malfoy's__ faking, trying to get me to doubt him, or get me hurt__"_ Harry recalls seeing a similar move once before, and turns towards the real Snitch. Malfoy, confused, almost smashes into the ground before pulling up. He zips after Harry as soon as he recovers.

"--Potters at midfield, I think he's after the Snitch-- Malfoy is behind him, good thing he's no good--Sorry Professor--."

"JORDAN…"

Cheering erupts from all corners of the audience, urging one seeker or the other on. Harry, quickly nearing the snitch, veers hard left and a Slytherin chaser moves to block him.

"Not today, Harry," says Cho Chang.

_"__Cho?__"_

Malfoy zips past Harry, but apparently has not spotted the Snitch, now further away. Harry pulls a loop around Cho and outstrips her towards the Snitch. "_What's going on? Cedric? Cho? Umbridge?__"_

Ahead of Harry, Malfoy does not notice him veer left towards the Snitch, and Harry feels certain he has it. He gets another look at Umbridge, smiling beneficently. Beside her, Hagrid, wearing a turban, seems to be mumbling something at him, keeping eye contact. In the background Professor Dumbledore, wearing coveralls and Hagrid's enormous ragtag coat, which buries him, cleans his half-moon spectacles.

Harry finally catches and grabs the Snitch, and Cheering erupts. "_I won!__" _Harry thinks, and then doesn't.

* * *

Though unseasonably warm for summer, the woman did not sweat as she crossed Wisteria Walk. Tall, severe, with tightly bunched blonde hair pulled back, and unfamiliar high heels clicking on the asphalt, the woman looked side to side as she crossed. She took in the regularly spaced street lamps, not lit this early, the regularly spaced houses with neat fences, neat gardens, and neat lawns. She saw a pair of children, a blue clad boy and pink clad girl, playing carefully and with great cleanliness in front number 12, Privet Drive. They did not look up at her. 

Silently, the woman cursed. "_If the Ministry had lifted those old wards, this would be much simpler__I can't even use a memory charm!__"_ Still, the pristine neighborhood explained much of what she knew, as forbidden as that knowledge was. How Percy's plan would work, she did not know, though. "_Paying Muggles in Wizard gold__"_

Still, Percy had been right so far. Hopefully. "_He is alive. He is!__"_ The woman continues up the street, and came quickly to another crossing. She looked both ways, as Percy had instructed, and crossed. "_No point being smushed by one of those autos the Muggles roll around in_. "She had her doubts about the things, but Percy insisted that she be careful of them.

A few more steps and the woman turned onto the walk leading into number 4. "_He grew up here! This is a great place! They will be great people! __Surely,__ Percy is wrong about them__"_ Her conviction faltered only for a second before walking to the door. Certainly, if they raised Him, they cannot be as Percy described them. Rather, they must be beyond him, enigmas without answer. Satisfied with her conclusion, she knocked on the door.

Behind the door, a confused sound floated out, then a quick shake of a chain and turn of the handle. Opened only slightly, the door hid the bulk attached to the large, flushed face peering out. The large mustache moved only a little when it spoke.

"Who is it?" asked a large voice insistently.

"Mr. Dursley, my name is Grace Astley. I've come to discuss some business."

"Business is it? Come in, "said Mr. Dursley, suddenly accommodating. Turning around he called out "Petunia, tea! We have a guest."

Grace noticed, as she entered, the sheer bulk of the man speaking, Vernon Dursley. Not a tall man, he was certainly a wide one, and without a neck to speak of. His girth stopped just short of being flabby, instead retaining a hint of round firmness. She followed Mr. Dursley into a sitting room, and sat as he motioned her towards the sofa. He seated himself in a chair.

"So, what business brings you here?" he asked, his expression managing to be both wary and gluttonous.

"I represent a party specifically interested in a research case handled by your foundation."

"The Dursley Foundation for Research of the Criminally Insane? That's just a tax break! It doesn't have any ruddy research cases. Just that...wait, who did you say you represented again?"

The door to the kitchen opened, and a tall blonde woman with a very long neck entered, carrying tea. She was in excellent spirit, and looked at Grace with an expectant expression.

Grace, rather than answering Mr. Dursley's question, withdrew a medium large pouch from her purse. She handed the coin bag to Mr. Dursley. Despite her lack of confidence in Percy's choice of payment, Mr. Dursley's face had blanched even before he had opened the pouch. Once he saw the gold coins inside, he became almost subservient rather than solicitous.

Much to her surprise, Mr. Dursley, after a short pause, asked, "What am I to do?"

Startled, but not willing to pass up an opportunity, she said, "Just call the doctors and let them know that I'll be coming to assess him."

Wearily, apprehensively, Mr. Dursley nodded, "Any thing else?"

He stood, waiting only long enough for her to shake her head no.

"Right. Grace Astley will see Harry. Now, sorry to rush you off, but we have, um, reservations, yes, reservations, in town. Mustn't be late. Maybe next time we can chat, have some tea. Yes. Do give him our thanks for the gold. Good day," he said, slamming the door behind her.

_"__Odd,__"_she thought to herself. "Very_ Odd._ " Percy might understand what just happened, but she did not.

* * *

Late that night, the last of August, a dark, cold wind blew into Diagon Alley. The Dark Spot, as it came to be called, or just the Spot, rode that wind. It was not seen itself, not until the very end, but rather it was so unseen that it howled for attention. Darker than the clouded cover of the darkest night in the darkest corner of the darkest room of Diagon Alley, it sucked in light, in great streams. Bands of light bore into it and disappeared, only deepening the darkness. Diagon Alley, despite the powerful enchantments used to keep the market lit, was as dark that cold summer night as it had ever been. 

The Spot flew, or floated, slowly into the alley, reveling in the panic permeating the air. The Spot was not human. Not anymore. Maybe never. It did not know. Did not remember. Did not care.

It looked down into the buildings as it passed, seeing the shopkeepers in their loft apartments panic as their candlelight flowed out their windows in yellow ribbons. It sucked up the fear, the dread, with the light, and grew stronger, darker. It should have come here sooner.

Still floating lazily, without direction, It immersed itself in the prolonged suffering of this place. "_There has been little hope here for many years.__"_ It thought to itself, if it thought. Perhaps it just noticed, observed the fact. Perhaps it merely felt it. It did not care.

Finally, despite the elation garnered from the wives cowering in corners, despite the recharging effect of the spells being thrown at It to dispel or repel or destroy It, It remembered its purpose. No longer a floating haze above the alley, the spot coalesced into a man shaped cloud, primitive, apelike, with square shoulders, and dove towards the Ministry of Magic. It did not need any secret entrance. No wards hindered It. It stood on the earth for a moment, and then fell through it, into the Ministry, though the falling only approximate, apparent. It entered the earth where It wished, and came out where It wished. It could have done this from anywhere. This was much more satisfying.

Coming into the ministry, It found the room It wanted, the place to leave Its message. Entering the room, It remembered different statues than those here now, different than these three men with their three serpents. It remembered a man, a woman, a centaur, a goblin, and a house elf. It had never seen them, not physically, but It remembered them. For tonight, these figures were more appropriate, surrounding as they did the silver altar in the center of the pool.

Approaching the altar, the Spot noticed the smaller figures waving wands that shot green, red, blue, and yellow streams of light into It, which It found slightly ticklish and very refreshing. "_Such kind men, these Security Guards__,"_It thought, plucking the term from their minds... It chuckled. Amusement It knew.

From within itself, It withdrew a small bag, once white, but now smeared with ash. It upturned this bag, spilling its contents on the altar with a small cloud of ash and a small clink of metal and bone. It stood, towering over the panicked figures swarming around It, playing with their pretty lights. It admired Its handiwork, the cleverness of the message, then rose into the ceiling, and was gone.

Reaching the altar, a serpent like man with a hissing voice looked at the ashes. In one hand, he hefted the charred spine of a book, in the other, a twisted and melted piece of a necklace, once a locket, maybe.

He looked up with cold eyes.

"Get me Snape. NOW!"

* * *

Deep in the Ministry of magic, in the lavish quarters taken by the Lord Voldemort upon his 'election' as Minister of Magic eleven years ago, a darkly stained oak table stood in a brightly lit room. Upon entering, Snape noticed before anything else the brightness of this room, because Lord Voldemort was not fond of brightness. Not a creature of the night, not allergic to light, or even uncomfortable with it, but with a definite preference for dimness, Voldemort seemed out of place, smaller somehow, seated at the large table in this bright room. 

The brightness did little for the décor, which added to Snape's discomfort. Voldemort was popular, popular in a way no one could have foreseen. For all his evil, his self-gratification and hunger for power, once in charge, he had proven adept as a dictator. While he was feared, and rightly so, because of his temper and penchant for taking what, or who, he wanted, overall, the lives of most of the wizarding community had greatly improved. Holding the Death Eaters in check within his rules now, the community as a whole apparently flourished. No more excessive bureaucracy, no more legal loopholes, no more abuse. Not for a pureblood. Even the half bloods were left alone, as long as they stayed loyal and productive. Much better to profit from one's inferiors, philosophized Voldemort. Who better to do the things unfit for purebloods? Albeit that they were no longer trained at Hogwarts, or taught there, or were allowed to hold certain other careers.

They were much better off than the Muggles. Voldemort took great pleasure in turning a certain Muggle tradition against them, and so did many of the wizarding community, including many who, a decade before, were vocally opposed to such, like the Weasleys. Who would have ever expected little Ron Weasley to become such a decorated hunter?

Snape looked uncomfortably around the room at Lord Voldemort's trophies, a grisly collection of stuffed Muggles in various ferocious poses. Having extended the Bureau of Muggle Affairs to include regulation and cleanup of the Muggle Hunt, available only to those with a valid Hunting License (one must show proficiency with the preferred spells), the Minister found great amusement from these trophies even ten years later.

Only those around Voldemort still harbored unhappiness, and those who, after so many years, still held dangerous secrets.

Sitting at the table, Snape noticed that Voldemort looked nervous, the first time he had seen him so. Ever.

"Find out what it was," Voldemort said, being direct, which was unusual. Voldemort never spoke without observing the 'niceties' and exerting his control in humiliating fashion. For him to omit both greatly worried Snape.

"Find out what it was, and what it was here for. Find out how to kill it."

"Of course, my Lord. I will turn the entire staff onto researching it. Might I ask what steps are being taken immediately?"

"I'm leaving. I'm going to do my own research, abroad, as I have done so well for so long. Lucius will direct the Ministry for now. "

Voldemort focuses on Snape with his slit eyes. "This is to be kept secret. Once you have found the answer, in your research, or I have found it abroad, I will come back, and we will deal with this….thing. You know how to reach me. Go"

Snape rose, and left, contemplating what these events might mean, what Voldemort's uncharacteristic fear might signify. Voldemort had not been himself. Not at all. No flowery phrases, no threats, no speeches, just a few quick words. "Odd, "thought Snape. "_Very odd.__ Maybe __it's__ time to send that owl. Maybe.__"_

* * *

Far away, on another continent, one of ice, an old, old man slept in a cave overlooking the sea. No one else had ever seen this cave because, before the old man was here, it had not existed. 

The cave was carved out of ice. No marks scored the perfectly square walls of either of the rooms, though. Wooden furniture, padded with red fabric where needed, and carved sparsely with phoenixes, tastefully adorned the two cluttered cave rooms.

In the first room, no door hangs on the opening portal, yet it could not be seen from without. Within it offered a wide view. Outside, a wind as cold as any ever known by man blew, aimed directly at the cave's opening, yet, none of this wind entered, and the cave stayed comfortably warm. In the second room, beside the snoring figure in the enormous four-post bed, a phoenix sat contentedly on its stand. Metal instruments of all arcane designs and uses littered the tabletop and desk of the room, excepting the silver filled bowl on a corner table. Books cluttered shelves on every wall, but there were no pictures anywhere.

Rolling over in his sleep, the old man began to shake and mutter. His shaking grew worse until finally, he sat up. Reaching to his side, he pulled a pair of half-moon spectacles from a nightstand and donned them.

The old man stood up, began methodically switching his worn nightgown for clothes and robes, both of which lay folded in a corner and seemingly were untouched in days, maybe weeks.

Properly dressed, the old man retrieved one of his metal instruments, moved it this way, that way, examined it a bit, tasted it. He put it down and looked over at the bird, eyes twinkling.

"We have to pack. It's almost time to go home, Fawkes." he said, beginning to wave his wand.

* * *

Like so much of the industrial art architecture of modern London, the building was ugly. External geodesic supports criss-crossed round surfaces made to look flat, and squared surfaces made to look round. The effect was one of a crinkled cracker box on a coat hanger. 

The woman calling herself Grace Astley looked up at the high roof, standing in front of the wide double glass doors through which a flood of Muggles angrily steered around her.

_"__How do Muggles live in such places?_" she asked herself. "_What if it falls over?__"_ Not finding an answer to how Muggles make do without magic, she resigned herself to entering the ungainly building.

Grace entered the building, looking for directions. Finally, satisfied with her reading of the color-coded map in the lobby, she ventured down a hallway and up two flights of stairs. Her first wrong turn. A half hour, and four wrong turns later, Grace stepped into the correct area, the entrance to the 'special patients' wing.

This hospital, St. Georges Research Hospital of London, housed a wide variety of patients, from those suffering debilitating diseases or injuries considered marginally incurable, to patients recovering from quick outpatient surgeries. Overall, the goal of the organization was to help find cures or procedures to help those incurable or nearly incurable patients prolong life, or improve its quality. The Special Patients wing, actually just the 23 floor, housed patients suffering extreme forms of poorly understood mental conditions, and who were referred to as the 'nutters', by the polite at least.

On this floor, one woman thought she could fly. Her accommodations did not have a view. Another, a man believing himself to be the half brother of Jesus Christ himself, insisted that his nurse supplicants simply called him Frank. He felt no need to be formal.

This wing of special patients had one patient considered to be more special than the rest. He resided in a locked and padded room at the end of the east hall. To get to this room staff had to go through a special observation room, used to monitor his condition and behavior. These special arrangements were funded by his kind relatives who, feeling pity for the man, had commissioned a foundation to research his and similar conditions. Being his guardians, and him being so degraded, they gave permission for all manner of experimental treatments. Every year or two, they brought in a new doctor, and gave him a substantial grant specifically to study him. So far, no treatment had worked.

It was to this room that Grace was led after clearing her credentials with the dismissive woman at the reception desk. A short round man wearing green clothing and a white jacket led her to the observation chamber. He had introduced himself as Dr. Gartner.

"The Dursley Foundation set up this visit for you, rather unusual, you understand?" he asked, though his tone was ambiguous. "They said you were familiar with the case, so we'll dispense the normal lecture before letting you in. Just come on through this door here."

Grace nodded, only half listening. _"Finally, Harry Potter! Eleven years! He's been gone for Eleven years." _Though Percy had managed, somehow, to learn that Harry was alive, and then where he was, they still had no idea why.

Suddenly, Grace understood. Some at least.

In the observation room was a table, slightly higher than normal, with four chairs on one side, facing a window on the opposite side. Through this window was a man. He stood at less than average height, though he stooped enough that it was hard to tell. Shaggy, unkempt hair seemed to jut in every direction. The man did not resemble the pictures she had seen of Harry Potter, and at first, she wanted to leave, to call it a lie. "_Harry Potter? A…diaper?__"_

Prancing gaily around the room, riding a toy horsy backwards in what she recognized as a broomstick grip, and wearing only a large diaper and slippers on his pasty, flabby, far too round body, was a man with the unshaven, gauntly stretched face of Harry Potter. Zooming around his padded room reciting what sounded like a Quidditch commentary, his hair blew back long enough for Grace to see the identifying scar, shaped like a lightning bolt. There was no doubt that this was Harry.

"Bothers everyone the first time, "piped in Dr. Gartner, "except that cousin of his. Sometimes I think he enjoys this." Dr. Gartner shakes his round head sadly.

"It certainly isn't what I expected. Does he get many visitors? "Grace asked, more to cover her own discomfort than to get an answer.

"Not many," the doctor replied. "His cousin comes in sometimes and stares at him for a bit. A tallish blonde woman, about 25 or so, came in regularly for a few months in '90, but she stopped coming. She took a bunch of notes while she was here, though. Listened to him through the glass for hours, she would. She even spoke with him a few times, and that's a real chore."

"I don't expect to be here that much, but I would like to watch for a while now, if that's alright."

"Sure, try one of the chairs," said Dr. Gartner, exiting the room.

Grace watched Harry through the morning and afternoon. He seemed oblivious to his surroundings, thinking himself back at Hogwarts. Sometimes he would ask himself a question, and act disturbed, or panicked momentarily, but then he would change 'games' and resume his cheerfulness.

"_This is no hero. What was Percy thinking?__"_

* * *

Climbing out of the fireplace at Hyatt House, the Headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix, still considered the new Headquarters by some after almost a decade, the blonde woman dusted the ashes from her clothes. Stepping away from the fireplace, she pulled a wand from her handbag, returning her clothing to the dark orangish-yellow robes she normally wore. Moving towards the kitchen, she heard footsteps rushing down the stairs. 

"Did you see him?" asks the slightly tall redheaded man bounding down the stairs. "Was he there?"

"I saw him, Percy. I saw him, and I don't think this is going to work. He's crackers. Spent the whole day riding a pretend broom around playing an imaginary Quidditch match. I couldn't tell, but I think he was playing both teams."

"Well, eleven years locked up and just about anyone would act a little strange, don't you think?"

"Strange be bothered, the fruit was wearing a diaper. He can't fight Voldemort, no matter what prophecy you dug up. He's cracked. He's probably better off where he is."

"You believe that? That he is better off with muggles prodding him with needles, and those drugs of theirs?"

"Well, he might be better off at St. Mungo's, but we can't put him there, can we? He wouldn't last an hour before he was found."

Pursing his lips in thought, Percy responded, "We'll get him out tomorrow, Paise. We need him. Maybe you have to be insane to kill Voldemort. Maybe we can help him. We won't know until we try, right? It's too late to change the plan, anyway."

"If you say so, I'll go along. But I won't be changing any diapers."

Percy chuckled. "Agreed. Now let's get supper. It's late."

Paise looked after Percy, shaking her head and following. He was a striking figure, and a surprising one, according to what she knew from his family. In the spat of deaths that had occurred around Voldemort's rise to power, Percy had grown somehow. According to his brothers, he had been officious, arrogant, pig headed, and narrow-minded. Now, he was well on his way to becoming a new Dumbledore, with the reputation to match.

Just as Voldemort had used his power to turn Dumbledore's previously respected name into an unclean one, so Percy, one of the few still opposing Voldemort, was considered an outlaw and rebel. Those labels amused his brothers immensely. Paise, though she had heard the stories about the change in Percy after his mother's death, had a hard time picturing him as he was then. He was so strong, always sure and certain. Which was why he led the Order now, or the new Order, rather, as so many of the former members had turned, died, or given up.

Paise knew that hurt first hand, since many of the friends she had graduated with 5 years ago were Death Eaters now, but she knew that did not compare to what Percy felt over his brother, Ron.

"Hurry up now, or I won't save you any food!" Percy shouted back towards her, somehow cheerful despite everything else.

"I'm coming, I'm coming."

* * *

Harry is flying. Wonderful cool air flows around him as he circles above the Burrow, once, twice, before setting down in the field behind. Dismounting his Firebolt, Harry walks into the house, still carrying his prized broom, through the kitchen. 

The kitchen had always been Harry's favorite part of the Burrow, always smelling of Mrs. Weasley's cooking, always full of laughter and bickering, as now.

Entering the kitchen, Harry stops short as he sees the figures at the table. Fred and George, Percy, Ginny, Ron, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, all as normal. Then there are the unexpected guests. Snape, chatting away merrily with Sirius Black, Hermione, sitting off to the side alone wearing….a wedding dress? Remus Lupin, covered in fur and swinging from a chandelier that should not be there, singing a hideous warbling song Harry had never heard before. Kreacher and Dobby, the house-elves, wrestling in the corner over a wand.

Recognizing the wand somehow as important, though it was not his, Harry walks over to the wrestling pair, and snatches at the wand.

"You two quit it! House-elves don't need wands, anyway," hollers Harry, as he swings the wand away from them. The wand, as his arm swings away, emits a ghastly green light in a jagged line, almost like a foggy lightning. The light strikes Mrs. Weasley and Hermione, and both turn to dust, before the wand, humming softly, discontinues the light.

For a moment, there is no sound, and then Ron, untangling his own Spello-taped wand from his robe pocket, jumps across the table at Harry, yelling.

"You killed Hermione! You killed her! And my mum!"

"I'm sorry!" Harry got out, before Ron's first spell ricochets off the wall near Harry. Harry, seeing no reason in Ron's eyes, turns and run back out of the house, towards the field. Hearing Ron following, he jumps behind a bush, to avoid curses.

"You can't hide forever, Harry! I'll find you! You can't hide forever!"

Harry, behind the bush, jumps onto his Firebolt, confident that he can out fly Ron's curses. Once off the ground, Harry pulls straight up, dodging a few streaks of red and blue. Once out of range, Harry decides to go to Black House, the only safe place he can go at will. After a short time, the wind begins to chaff at Harry's face, the cold begins to numb his fingers. The flight seems to take forever, but his course is true, and takes him directly to number 12 Grimmauld Place.

Entering the house, Harry finds it exactly as he remembers it. Upon closing the door, the painting of Sirius' mother begins screaming, but Harry ignores that in favor of the tapping that begins on the door as soon as he closes it.

"Who is it?" Harry asks. Hearing no answer, he cracks open the door. Standing in front of the door and pecking at it insistently is a large, dark owl. The owl waits patiently as Harry removes a square envelope from its leg, then flies away. Closing the door, and still ignoring the screaming painting, Harry opens the envelope and pulls a single sheet of paper from it. He just has time to register a green-inked symbol on the paper before he goes black.

* * *

Harry did not know how long he slept. When he woke up, the first thing he remembered was the symbol, still in his hand. 

The hand that held it, though, was not what he remembered. He looked around. He was sitting by a door. The walls were white padding, with childlike splashes of color. There was a cot on one side of the room, and the wall on the other side housed an enormous rectangular mirror a few feet off the ground.

_"__Where am I?__"_

* * *

Author's Note. As promised, an example/explanation of my character projection method: Percy. At first glance, making Percy into a possible sucessor to the powerfully good wizard slash mentor role previously filled by the now presumed dead Dumbledore seems unreasonable. He was an arrogant, officious jerk, unable to admit error, and hungry for political power in Rowling's books. 

Lets go deeper, though. In school, he was studious, and earned high honors and marks, both for his magical talents, and his devotion to following 'rules'. It is also made apparent in the books that Percy has an innate faith that these 'rules' represent 'right', or good. He is a jerk, but a smart, talented one who believes that what he does is good and right, even at the cost of estrangement from his beloved, and he does love them, family. Now, this chapter mentions a 'spat of deaths', which apparently includes his mother. Percy, inarguably, was most closely attached to his mother. Her death, and the as yet unknown circumstances, in my opinion, acted as an 'eye opener' for Percy. It showed him that following the rules is not always right. But if all rules are not right, and good, but some are, which is obvious, how does one choose? Possibly then, Percy might conclude that he must draw his own conclusions, rather than accepting blindly those given by others. This then, gives rise to the casual attitude towards 'rules' which Dumbledore often showed in the face of a choice between rules and right, which only seems casual, but rather results from self confidence, both in judgement, and ethical alignment. He knows what is right, and trusts himself to do it. This change does not happen immediately of course, but remember, a decade has passed. With his newfound views of right and wrong, Percy brings his considerable talent to bear with something often lacking in the Weasley line: Motivation. Please remember that Percy never does anything half-way, but always to the extreme. His shift in views would result in a shift in extremes. We do not yet understand the full circumstance of this new motivation, but it is hinted at. Percy, with this new motivation, new view of right and wrong, good and evil, and new self confidence, might then begin to resemble a young Dumbledore. Not identically, of course, he is still his own person, capable of his own mistakes and greatnesses, but rather in terms of role, and, while filling this role, he might retain some of his old arrogant, officious, ways, or have flashes of them. And this is how Percy became who he is in this story. Each character, in turn, has been subjected to a similar projection process, based on previous action, current circumstance, and the circumstances in the years that have 'lapsed'. In turn, the story will explain each of these, although never again so obviously as this example with Percy.

Feel free to review this story, as input regarding my methods is more than welcome, it is needed. And in advance, I hope you enjoy the remainder of this story as it comes out.

-- Ol'Joe


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